


Charges

by ArkadyLady



Category: NCIS: Los Angeles
Genre: A.K.A. Mama Deeks, Gen, Get a spoon for the angst, Outdated Now, Spec before "Internal Affairs", Speculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-10 19:39:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5598334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArkadyLady/pseuds/ArkadyLady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deeks, in prison, has to make a very difficult phone call.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Charges

**Author's Note:**

> Spec fic written before "Internal Affairs," so it's outdated, if you will.

_“Do you accept the charges?”_

Martin Deeks dreaded his mother’s hearing those words.  He wished he could think of a way to keep her out of this, but she would find out eventually.  He’d rather she find out from him.

The cop handed him the phone’s receiver, and his palms were already beginning to sweat.  He wondered how long he’d actually be able to hold his grip.  He nodded to the officer a non-verbal, “Thank you.”  He knew how this worked.  If you were polite and cooperative, you would get all the calls you needed.  They were free as long as they were local.  He’d use one for the lawyer.  His first one, though, he’d need for his mother.  Unfortunately it was long distance and would cost her money.  And grief.  God. He could only imagine the grief.  

He thought about this woman and all the times she beamed with pride at him – her smile always teaching him how much joy one could have in life despite all of its troubles.  He also remembered how sad her eyes could get.  And how her disappointment could shake him to his core.

He remembered her face after he shot his father.  He remembered it after he stole a car.  Both times she had looked at him and asked, “Oh, Martin, what have you done?”

He once again began to try and re-calculate how to leave her out of this, praying he just hadn’t seen the solution earlier – that there was one.  This was the woman that still kept their post-holiday celebratory traditions.  He remembered the bags of candy days after Easter in a basket – prices scratched out when she couldn’t remove the tags.  She still showed up every weekend after Easter with a basket of (healthier) goodies, including a stuffed rabbit or duck for Monty.  

How the hell was he going to make this call?    

The walls he had built between areas of his life were crashing down.  Things were bleeding together. And so were his memories.

“I just want to help people, Mom.”  

“You are! You’re a lawyer! You’re doing such a good thing, Martin.”

“It’s not enough, though. I think I could make a difference.  Help more people who need me.  Help people like –“ he had cut himself off before saying people like her, or at least the woman she had been all those years ago.   “I just…I think this is right… Mama.”  He had said the last word softly, his eyes widened and pleading to her for her support.  The last thing he had wanted was for her to worry.  He was everything to her. He knew that.  

She had placed her hand on his cheek and looked at him with her own set of pleading eyes that could give his a run for their money.  

“Volunteer, sweetie.  There are places that could use you. Food pantries are open year-round. There are other ways.”

They had stood in agonizing silence for what felt like months.  He had made up his mind, but he didn’t have the heart to tell her, yet.

“I don’t want to get a call, Martin. I don’t want that call.”

Her hand was still on his cheek, and he placed his on top of it.  

“Oh, Mama, you won’t get a call. I promise.  You know me.”  He grinned.  “I’m crafty.”

She didn’t protest after that, but he still remembered how she was the saddest person smiling and clapping at the academy months later.  

He did his best to make sure she never worried.  

“Did you do anything dangerous today, Martin?”

“No, Mom, I didn’t.”  This wasn’t a lie.  Max Gentry had taken some risks.  And so had Jason Wyler.  Martin Deeks, though, was safe and sound.

He had never told her about getting shot.  He didn’t want to, and he figured it would never be a technical lie since she would never bring something like that up.  It became one, though, when he winced slightly in pain bending over in front of her during an impromptu visit towards the end of his recovery.  He insisted he was fine, and she knew better.  

“No, you’re not.  What happened?”

“Just pulled something handling a surprisingly strong and unruly suspect.”  He had smiled and again insisted he was fine.  

Her distraught face told him he would hate to see her reaction to the real story.

Years later, after the Sidorov case, he had managed to get a text to her saying he had a special retreat he needed to go to and would have limited access to his phone.  She had tried to call to wish him well, but he ignored the call.  He couldn’t pick up the phone.  Couldn’t hear her voice at the time.  Just hearing her say “Sweetie” or “Martin” would make him lose it on the phone.  He had felt like such a child, wanting nothing more than to have his mother sleeping nearby to remind him that things would be okay.  He couldn’t do that to her, though.  He just couldn’t.  

So he had texted her, “Sorry, Mom.  Already on my way. Service getting spotty. Love you, M.”

He had stared at her “Take care, sweetie” for hours after.  

She never wanted a call.  He never wanted her to get a call.  She was getting one today, though.  

He finally dialed the number.

“Do you accept the charges?”

As soon as he heard her voice, he thought to himself, _Oh, Martin, what have you done?_


End file.
